Many decades ago, a nation woke from its centuries old slumber. An ancient civilization willed itself awake. No longer content with her introspective splendors, she wished to speak to the world. A billion voices she makes her own, a million gods all receive her homage. Ashamed of her outer squalor and remembering her glorious past of plenty, she learns once more the way of wealth.
But it is hard this awakening, the mighty Mother groans under the torpor of innumerable selves. Selves of ignorance and pride, of apathy and weakness, of sloth and greed. No more do her children remember the law, the strength of aspiration, of sacrifice. All is a mire, as when a waking child knows not its bearing, all is a stumbling.
In remembering themselves, her children have forgotten the Mother. No longer does the heart vibrate with the cry of Vande Mataram.
But a few have heard her call for help. A few of us, perhaps even you and I, though we may not know it. And we act to awaken her.
In every gesture and every common act to reveal a little of her heritage. To hold your head high, to not stoop down before convention. A little perfection in every task, a little perseverance in every ambition. To become in ourselves worthy inheritors of the Upanishads, souls fit to hold the Gita. To stand beside each of our brothers-black and brown, saint and sinner, high and the low, strong and the weak, all children of the same Mother, to aspire within and conquer without.